Bus Ride

The seats of the school bus were cold and clung to our staticky winter clothes. In the back of a seat halfway down the aisle, someone had carved the word “dic.” I giggled, not knowing what “dic” meant, only that it was a swear word, and it was misspelled.

Her hair was red and black, cut into strange, chunky layers. She wore long black flowing skirts, ripped long-sleeved tee shirts, heavy black eyeliner. I watched as she leaned close into the bus window, breathing out deliberately, then brought up her index finger, drawing a careful anarchy symbol on the fogged-up window.

I couldn’t talk to Anna, even though I desperately wanted to. Instead I befriended her sister, Rachel, who was three years older than I, in the same class as my cousin John. Rachel had extremely straight blond hair cut in a very fashionable diagonal bob, longer on the left side. She was extremely thin and, like her sister, dressed in all black. Rachel was older, wiser, another older sister to me, inventing stories to entertain me on the long bus rides.